


acceptance

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Codas [37]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s15e02 Raising Hell, Gen, M/M, Season/Series 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-23 18:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21086081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Dean hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours.





	acceptance

Dean hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours.

Not because he can’t find a place to sit down, but mostly because he can’t relax. Coffee and caffeine fuel his movements, anger and adrenaline keeping him wired just enough to walk and talk and act like a normal human being. But the second he sits still—the one second where he closes his eyes, he’s gone, standing straight up and leaning against whatever hard surface he can find. In some cases, a wall or a door, or even a chair.

In this case, he falls asleep in a classroom, sitting behind a desk with his fingers steepled, pressing into his forehead. This time of night, not too many people are awake, and if they are, they’re wandering, either keeping out of each other’s way or gathering together to chat, mostly in the cafeteria. Hidden away in the back of the school—why couldn’t they just take over a motel instead?—Dean sits and listens to the sound of nothing. Occasional footsteps, chatter from down the hall—most importantly, quiet.

Someone breaks that bubble, though—and Dean could recognize those footsteps a mile away. “Busy here,” Dean huffs, on the precipice of passing out again. He can almost taste it, the sweet release of unconsciousness, black curling at his vision—

But hands grab him instead, hoisting him out of his chair and against the whiteboard; his hips hit the marker tray, and he winces, opening his eyes to find Castiel, just as pissed as ever. _Good_. He deserves it, after all the shit he’s pulled in the last few days. What God forced him to do.

In the midnight-black of the room, Dean glares right back at him, hands at his sides while Castiel presses an arm over his chest, keeping him in place. Dean’s back strains—Castiel doesn’t care. “Not done yet?” Dean asks, to Castiel’s growl. “Said all I wanted to say to you.”

“I know you have,” Castiel shoots back, crowding closer. “But I haven’t.”

Hot breath graces Dean’s lips, the fire in Castiel’s eyes just as scalding. Months ago, Castiel might’ve affected him, might’ve fulfilled every desire he ever craved. But that was all a lie—every bit of it, every hidden desire, every late-night fantasy, was all a lie. “Then get to it,” Dean says, jaw clenched. “I got things to do.”

Castiel shoves him harder; Dean’s spine twinges, and he bites back a gasp, tongue between his teeth. “You don’t get it, do you?” Castiel says. One hand grips the tray, the sleeve of his coat brushing against Dean’s forearm. “You’re so caught up in your… existential crisis, that you fail to see the reality of your situation.”

“And what’s that?” Dean grunts. “’Cause I can see just fine. You heard what I said, and you know damn well how royally fucked we are right now. What are we supposed to do, huh? God played us, God turned us into his personal puppet show, and now, I don’t even know if I’m real! Shit, is Sam even my brother? Are you even—” He stops, sidetracks. His face heats, but he shoves it down, like everything else. “Everything that happened to us, what did we do to deserve this? Or were we just the last suckers on the line?”

“See, this is what you’re not understanding.” Castiel lets him go, only to seize Dean by the collar, nails scraping his throat. “Just because God wrote the rulebook doesn’t mean everyone has read the damn thing. He may have shoved us together into each and every atrocity, but we walked in defiance of his hand, we wrote in the margins, we blacked out what didn't make sense. We wrote our own playbook, Dean.” His grip tightens; Dean swallows, lightheaded. “Does it matter that much, if this is how it had to happen?”

“Yes,” Dean hisses. Fighting back doesn’t work; Castiel keeps him still, even when Dean claws at his wrist. “It’s always fucking mattered, because at one point in my life, I believed in free will. I believed in us, and everything we stood for. All the people we’ve saved, all the things we’ve killed, what’s the point if none of it mattered? Tell me, Castiel, what’s the fucking point?”

Castiel breathes out, long, slow, with such depth that it leaves Dean winded just watching him. “We all have a choice, Dean. God imbued humanity with the power of free thought, of acting in one’s own interest. Angels weren’t given that choice. We were blind to obey, and you were the one that taught me, in all of my years, that I could decide my own fate, that I could make my own decisions. You were the one that taught me,” another shove, another breath, “that we all had a purpose. Maybe this is ours. And I’m making my choice now.”

“Yeah?” Tensely, Dean releases Castiel’s wrist, both hands fisting the tray; their fingers brush. “And what’s that?”

Dean could say he was expecting it. He’s always been expecting it, since the moment they met. When it happens, it still doesn’t feel real; Castiel crowds him into the wall and kisses him, all wet lips and longing, and clings to Dean’s face, like it’s the first thing he’s touched in decades. Really touched, with heat and ardor, intoxicating. For too long, Dean just stands there and lets it happen, convinced this is all a fever dream, that he’s still asleep at the desk.

When Castiel doesn’t let go—When Castiel’s tongue gets involved, the rest of him catches up. “You’re only doing this because—”

“Because what, Dean?” Castiel pulls away to nip his jaw, lips mouthing a hot trail down his throat. “Did you entirely miss the point of what I just told you? Think about it.”

That’s the problem, he _can’t_ think, not when Castiel is marking his skin, kissing him like he’s always wanted to be kissed—rough, needy, with just an edge of desperation. Like this is their last night on earth. “It’s not real,” Dean says, mostly to himself, and fists a hand in Castiel’s hair. His chin wobbles; Castiel tugs him closer, so close to a hug year not quite. “It doesn’t—Not like this, doesn’t mean shit like this.”

“It means everything.” Gentler than he started, Castiel pulls away, cupping Dean’s cheek with one hand. Shame heats Dean’s face when he leans into it, the tension in his chest threatening to break free. Being awake hurts—Castiel _hurts_. “I said it before. If there’s one thing that’s real, it’s us.”

“You don’t mean that,” Dean says, low. Lips caress his neck, his chin, up to his own, where Dean opens for him, easy. “You don’t…”

“I’m asking you to believe me.” Before Dean can keep track, Castiel lifts him up, the world spinning until his ass lands on the desk. There, between Dean’s spread knees, Castiel kisses him while Dean fumbles with the straps on Castiel’s coat. “If there’s one thing real in your head, let it be this.”

_I want it to be real_, Dean thinks, knuckles blanched, breaths ragged. “Liar,” Dean says instead, and he holds on, too taken by exhaustion, by Castiel’s touch—Castiel’s _love_—to do much else. “Don’t lie, not now.”

“I wouldn’t lie,” Castiel says, hands to Dean’s thighs, tugging him closer, flush. _I love you_, Dean thinks—through the anger, through the agony of loss and despair, this is the one constant he knows. The heat of Castiel’s kiss, his touch—those, he’ll cling to, more than anything else. “Not to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> How 'bout that episode!! Here, have a coda! :D
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquities).


End file.
